Comparisons, comparisons...

This morning, as I was cleaning, scraping rust and repainting the crew seats in the lifeboat, an Italian couple came to have a look round. He boarded with alacrity; she, very sensibly, took one look at the yawning gap between the superannuated gang-plank and the boat and decided to stay on the dockside.

The chap was full of intelligent questions and very curious. Last stop on the look-round was the engine room. Here, he was strangely unimpressed, whereas most people are quite overwhelmed by the sight of two monstrous twelve-cylinder turbodiesels in a confined space. He seemed to know something about motors, however, so I asked him whether he had a motorboat.

Yes he did, he said, on the river Po: a racing boat powered by AlfaRomeo engines. He had taken part in the annual Po race, all the way to Venice. How long had it taken him, in driving time? A mere three hours. I calculated he must have been skimming along at between 130 and 140 kms an hour. Good job he didn't hit one of the many supermarket trolleys thrown into the Po.

Beats the lifeboat's 46 kms an hour, by a considerable margin, but I'm not sure he'd like to take it out in the seas we get here.

Nice day out

Quick trip to Nice today, for a bit of a city stroll, a touch of shopping, a tasty meal at the reliably excellent Lu fran Calin restaurant, a wander around the flower stalls at the Cours Saleya, and a wee peek at the crèche in the cathedral. The last was a strange experience. All the life-size figures (probably window dresser's dummies) were blond, blue-eyed, and vapid (possibly heroin chic) with the exception of a 'smoulderingly sexy' Joseph who strangely resembled Cat Stevens in his days before becoming Yusuf Islam.

A blue Christmas

No, not a sad Christmas, just splendid blue skies, a friendly sea (with bathers) and a nice, long bike ride along the coast to Nice. The coastal cycle-track and promenade were packed with people doing something better than waiting for the bird and trimmings to roast.

When we got back, still in our cycling togs, we had our apéritif (a very fruity, mellow Alsace white) on the roof terrace. We shared our nibbles, including some very more-ish grissini from Veziano's, with the tutelary turtle doves, who sat at, or rather on, our table and were good company.

Cross-border raid

Yesterday we spent a very pleasant day out, partly in Menton and partly just over the border into Italy, to stock up on booze and other goodies.

Menton was its usual ravishing self, with the Portmeirion backdrop of pastel and ochre houses and churches, fringed by a nice, clean harbour. I even added another lifeboat to my collection.

We had a light meal in a café and then went to visit the new Cocteau museum. The original nucleus of the collection had been held in the quaint citadel next to the port. Now a large building, looking like botched dentistry on a horse, and jarring mightily with the surroundings, has been built. The inside is ever so slightly better, if you like endless, unimaginative expanses of white. The collections, though, were stunning, with lots of pencil and pen-and-ink drawings, posters, notebooks, letters. In particular, the works he did whilst being weaned off opium addiction were searing and powerful. Worth the crowded motorway journey on their own.

We then dropped a notch or two in the cultural pecking order by heading for the CONAD supermarket in Latte, just over the border. It was, just like last time, besieged by uncouth, unpleasant French day-trippers elbowing each other out of the way to get at the bargains. What the Italian staff and customers thought of this unrivalled rudeness does not bear thinking about. Mind you, we were probably counted as part of the unwelcome herd. Top of the discoveries were fresh ravioli stuffed with chopped borage. Definitely worth eating again.

Some of the products deserve a photo, like the moving pan-European collaboration to produce whisky (enlarge the photo by clicking on it), the 'mental' hooch and the metre and a half salame.

Let them eat cake

Last night, for the first time, I attended the annual Yule Log festivities in the Safranier. The BH had been there on previous occasions, but events had always conspired to keep me away. This time we were with friends: Gérard, Olga, Michel.

The very active comité du quartier of this whacky comune libre, aided and abetted by master baker Veziano (with father Xmas hat and rolled up sleeves) and master patissier Cottard, had produced a sumptuous log roughly 21 feet in length. But length isn't everything: the diameter of the log was about ten times normal. I found this out to my cost when roped in with four others to carry a short section on a board to the cutting tables. It was like carrying a bier already loaded with a corpulent corpse! Lifeboat first aid practice stood me in good stead, and the patient was not tipped onto the ground.

The amount of cake was simply mind-boggling. This being France, though, the challenge of scoffing the lot was quickly taken up, and at the end not even crumbs were to be seen. The steady stream of steaming mulled wine may have had something to do with it.

The cutting and candle-lighting ceremony was celebrated by ZéZé, the madcap 'burgermeister' of the comune libre, dressed in probably purloined full religious vestments, humbly assisted by the real mayor, who is a government minister (and from the religious right). This topsy-turvy, slightly anticlerical situation was to everybody's taste, especially the mayor's, as he loves getting back to his home patch and roots and having a good laugh.

The atmosphere, which began festively, became steadily more bacchanalian, with impromptu singing in Italian and affectionately rude insults traded in Antibes patois. Huge fun was had by all.

Bread and wine

How to break bread, and, yes, it does feel sacramental...


Notice the crispy stem and the yummy, doughy goblet bowl. One side is moulded, the other is rough. Dont worry, the explanation for all this can be found below, if you have the patience to read on.

After some dull work fruitlessly scrubbing the Caribe's inflatable dinghy to remove the sun-baked gunge of a whole summer, I downed tools with Gérard, an ex-teacher, and went for a stroll in old Antibes. We both had hidden gems to show each other.

Whilst we were looking at the cathedral bell-tower, with its re-used Roman masonry replete with bits of sculpture and epigraphy, the concierge of the Chapelle du Saint Esprit came out and invited us to look round the chapel, as the town council were in session. We crept in as quietly as we could, and looked down from the public gallery, formerly the organ loft I suppose, as the mayor reeled off statistics and regulations without once having recourse to notes. Pretty impressive.

Then it was Gérard's turn, and he took me to an improbably small house in the Place du Safranier, and regaled me with stories about Bernard, now in his eighties, who has kept all his drawings from school and puts on little exhibitions of youthful memorabilia outside his house. I recognised his style: he is the chap who does the posters for all the strange events which take place in the square - cubic pétanque, chestnut roasting, Portuguese dancing, Piedmontese singing, twelve metre long christmas logs (one coming up this weekend).

On the move again, we passed in front of Veziano's bakery, with its solitary olive tree standing guard. I told Gérard about the traditional craft bread, the delicious fougasse, the pissaladière. He just had to go in. Maitre Veziano was on his own, and in a talkative mood. In between dealing with bemused customers, he launched into his surprisingly sophisticated philosophy of bread, including the deontology of the baker and the duties of the bread-eater. He was about to get on to what I took to be the ontological proof of the existence of yeast when his wife entered the shop. He took immediate advantage to lead us ceremoniously down to the actual bakery.

Both Gérard and myself had worked in bakeries when young, and the smell of rising dough and raw flour, coupled with the presence of a watchful cat, took us straight back, in a truly Proustian intermittence du coeur. Strange that it should be the raw smells, rather than the cooked, but I suppose that the baking bread aroma is really associated with buying and eating, rather than our erstwhile hard graft lugging flour, measuring, kneading and putting the dough to prove.

While down there, the baker showed us his experiments. He is a sort of Heston Blumenthal of bread, with some wild ideas for a bready future. His miniature breads were exquisite masterpieces, as fine as the best patisseries. No wonder that the Monégasque mariage princier made use of his services.

But for me, the high point was his chalice bread. Ah, you say, that's what the pictures are about. The laboured structuralist reasoning behind the chalice form didn't particularly turn me on (too many oppositional matrices rammed down my throat as a student), but the contrast between a generously doughy goblet part and a crispy, almost breadstick stem was absolutely delicious, as was the expertly risen sourdough, which gave a nice tart finish to the crust. To be broken, not cut, the baker inveighed. But absolutely to be tried, say I, by anybody who has the good luck to pass through old Antibes. A glass of wine and a hunk of chalice bread - now there's a good mystery, even for the profane.

Expensive repairs

Having replaced all the battery circuits, it was time to test the engines. These have been causing us some worries lately, with geysers of coolant spraying round the engine-room whenever we have asked for a bit of oomph. The problem appeared to be in the heat exchangers, fairly expensive kit.

After a couple of trips out to sea, in grey winter weather with a big swell nicely decorated with a mistral-driven cross-chop, the engineers had narrowed the fault down to the starboard intercooler, and had named a price for replacement which turned us all grey, or perhaps green. The boat in all other respects had behaved splendidly, if one counts it as primarily a submarine, not a surface vessel. It was good to get some rough weather practice... despite all the hosing down afterwards.

So the boat is temporarily out of commission whilst the haggling over price, liability etc. continues between the station and Paris. This suits the cox fine, as he is now able to pay a brief visit to his parents in Normandy after a two year gap.

Back to the old routine

Well, that's it: the summertime truce has ended and I am now back into the routine of hospital visits. Yesterday was a consultation with a radiologist. Today is a bone-scan, Monday is an upper-body scan, and so on. I'll be consuming a goodly proportion of the local electricity generating capacity, and absorbing some pretty interesting chemicals and isotopes. Treatment will be decided in January.

But before that kicks in, we'll be out on the lifeboat this morning, with a reduced crew, testing all the battery circuits we have been labouring over. We finished them last night, in a cramped, sweaty space next to the steering gear which reminded me of working in a mine. Only one spectacular short circuit to boast of, occasioning an impressive arc of sparks, with no damage done to either the boat or people. Good job, too, because those batteries pack 340 ampères of punch, enough to kill you several times over, and start the turbodiesel engines afterwards.

Figgy Pudding

Last Friday the Riviera International Singers, directed by Beryl Arnould, gave a concert in Antibes cathedral with the proceeds going to the lifeboat fund. They raised 1510€, which was a magnificent achievement in itself, but what was more important was that they gave a smashing concert. I knew it was going well when Beryl turned round and conducted the audience, who, being anglophone, knew how to sing and had no hang-ups.

The French lifeboat crew had mixed reactions to all this vocal outpouring. The more Gallic amongst them kept stumm and glum, whereas the more internationally minded and curious actually joined in, including a rousing chorus of "Oh bring us some figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer." Their talents came in handy afterwards when lugging an enormous vat of mulled wine, which wet the whistles of all the singers, both choir and audience.

Differentials

Just had an injection, in the abdomen, which cost the French health service nearly 400€ a shot. The charming nurse who deftly and painlessly did the business charged me a mere 4€ and apologised profusely about the price she was obliged to make me pay for her services. She was the same one who took out the staples last winter. She recognised me straight away: 'You're the one who turned up with the money the next day when I forgot to charge you'. Must be a rare thing, round these parts, honesty...

Le Cannet

Today I saw for the first time Le Cannet, where Bonnard painted in a particularly productive period. Once a village composed of market gardeners and orchard growers, it is now part of the concrete jungle that has invaded the coast.

Leaving the museum for a rainy day, we went looking for the views that Bonnard painted: aided and abetted by a map offered by the museum. Not the most helpful cartography, but nevertheless we got up to the upper reaches and walked along the canal de la Siagne.

There are some seriously expensive properties up there, protected by barbed wire, dogs with bad tempers, and chaps, who knows, with incurable gun fetiches. The rich are afraid, very afraid. The only drawback to their paranoia was that they tried to cut off the view, too, rendering the footsteps of Bonnard tour slightly pointless.

Still, the heart of the old village is ravishing, and some of the architecture of the surrounding villas, despite the psychoses of those who commissioned it, is of breathtakingly good quality.

Worth the walk, especially for the rare peeks over the security fences towards the Isles de Lérins.

Clichés

Some iconic sights, however clichéd, are still rousing. Our hotel in NY was next to a precinct engine house, replete with firetruck and flashing lights. This one is for Arthur...

Whirr and whizz

Off to the plateau of Calern this morning. Bright sunshine, keen mountain air, the strong scent of lavender and thyme as our sandals passed over the tufts of hardy vegetation.

Hardly a sound, except for the excited warning chirrup of invisible small birds as we approached their hiding places.

Then a strange whirring sound, almost wasp-like. It was the aeromodellers' club, flying their sleek, radio-controlled gliders off the cliff edge. With the wind thrumming across their wings, they flew with almost the same grace as the eagles and buzzards we often see up there.

Resquilhada

The darse at Villefranche


The San Giuseppe about to be robbed of wind


The paella, before the mussels, rice and rabbit

This weekend I swapped the lifeboat for pointus and headed for Villefranche, which was hosting a traditional boat festival. The boat trip there, along the coast, on the good ships Caribe and Virginie, was magic, with Omo-bright white horses flecking an intensely blue sea, and the sunshine picking out all the details of the coast. What was even nicer was to be sharing this with friends, including English newcomers Paul and Lisa, delightful company and good fun, who joined us via the lifeboat funding campaign.

In Villefranche, the welcome was as warm as the sunshine. The lateen sails billowed in the sea breeze (except when the wind was obstructed by giant cruise ships), the rosé flowed in welcome draughts, and the socca, porchetta and paëlla (cooked in front of us by hard-working volunteers) were delicious, and much appreciated after the exertions on the water.

I met quite a lot of friends I had made in Brittany, including the crazy lot from CaraMed, who invited me back to sail with the Catalina any time I wanted. Mind you, they owed it to me, as Vincenzo and I, with two heavy sweeps, rowed all forty something feet, and eight tons, of her into the darse at Villefranche as a taxi service off the other boats. To cap it all, we were played into our berth by a dour Scotsman in Bermuda shorts, playing Scotland the Brave and Flower of Scotland, with repeats (well, it took a long time to wriggle into the space at our disposal, and sweeps aren't the best way of navigating narrow passages).

The other pleasure was meeting lots of Italians, especially the crew of an exquisite sailing gozzo, the San Giuseppe, from Prà, near Genoa. For some strange reason, the skipper of the San Giuseppe was wearing what looked like a magistrate's biretta with regulation pom pom. Inexplicably, incongruously, it was exactly the right kind of headgear for the occasion.

Garoupe Signal Station

No pictures in this post. I was too busy up at the signal station, helping out with doors open day. The queue to get into the observation tower was really long and slow moving, and the coastguards had plenty to do in the normal run of things, let alone the weekend when the public is unleashed amongst their radars, computers and giant binoculars (hint: I wouldn't mind a set for Christmas, but our floors would need to be reinforced to carry the weight). Ideal conditions, then, to do a bit of propaganda on behalf of the lifeboat service.

Our star turn, as it happened, was explaining what was in an inflatable liferaft. We had inflated one just outside the gates, and had displayed the survival gear, including the rations. The kids really liked the emergency rations, particularly the biscuit. I told them they shared their approval with my feathered friends.

Charlie, normally a chap of few words, surprised us all by demonstrating a real talent for sales chat, in French. Boy, did he move a lot of merchandise at the lifeboat stand.

As ever, the coastguards were charming company, and it was nice putting faces to the voices we hear over the radio when out at sea on rescues.

Competitive spirit

The mega-rich know what it takes to get ahead: a ruthless sense of me first! One of them must have been reading my blog, because he (or she) has decided to outdo the view-blocking prowess of the super-yacht "A", by bringing an even bigger one into port, completely filling the horizon. Must be a bugger to park, though...

Aperçu mer...

One of the things that intrigue me about French mores is the lack of salesmanship in selling houses. Photos invariably focus upon squalid piles of ironing, or decaying junk in the backyard. A similar insouciance is only too apparent in the accompanying blurbs, where hackneyed phrases succeed one another with dismaying regularity.

Of these feeble formulae, one is regarded as a particular selling point: "aperçu mer", or sea view. Usually one would need a neck with the length of a giraffe's and the 360° flexibility of a common pigeon's to glimpse the pollution-hazed postage stamp of blue, kilometres away behind the concrete jungle.

In our case, however, there is an "aperçu mer" (and indeed an "aperçu montagne"). And what is more, no buildings can be built to block them. But I speak too soon. In the last few days, various, very large objects have blocked the view.

The first is the motoryacht "A" (comes even before "Aardvark", in superyacht listings, geddit?). To give you an idea of scale, that's a full-sized lighthouse in front of it, just below the silvery funnels.

The other is a massive crane, which waddled into position the day before yesterday, in preparation for two years of noise and dust, as they build an underground (underwater?) carpark next to the port, just on the other side of the ramparts.

Saturday night and Sunday morning

Well, actually, it all started late on Saturday afternoon. After cleaning duties in the morning with two new recruits, Ben and Alex, then refuelling and port manoeuvre exercises with trainee cox'n Paul at the helm, we had all headed home. The BH and I had just got back from a swim when the beeper sounded. A sailing yacht required assistance some 22 nautical miles offshore. Off we went, corkscrewing unpleasantly in the big, close-packed swell the powerful mistral was sending onto our starboard quarter. It was the turn of the first lifeboatman to be sick over the side.



When we reached the sailing yacht, it was rolling madly in the swell, with sails, sheets and halyards ripped to shreds and over the side, making our approach tricky. There were five people aboard, including two children. There should have been six, we found out, but one man had been washed overboard and had been missing for three and a half hours. The coastguards informed us that he had been found and rescued, miraculously (for he hadn't been wearing a lifejacket) by the helicopter crew from 35F Naval Squadron (that's the view from the helicopter). For once, the name of the boat had been providential, 'Serendipity'. He was lucky to be alive.

We got a line across to the yacht on the third pass, and began the long process of the tow back. Entry into the port, in a high wind, with big waves, and the yacht entangled with sails and rigging, was hairy. To help control the drift, we launched our inflatable into high seas, with waves breaking over our deck and the towrope, hot with tension and friction, flailing only a few inches above our heads.

Once we had secured the other vessel, recovered our inflatable, rewound (by hand) two hundred metres of towrope, and brought back our own boat to its berth and got it ready for the next shout, it was past eleven thirty. We began to disperse. No sooner had I got home for what was now a cold supper than the pager went off again. So once more to sea, this time twelve nautical miles out for another sailing yacht. The wind had by now changed direction, and we were no longer corkscrewing but pounding directly into the breaking crests of the waves. The water, as it came boiling over the boat, whiplashing noisily against the windscreens, was illuminated an unnatural shade of blue by our flashing police lights. It was the turn of another crewman (again not me) to be horribly sick over the side. It was so rough that I was assigned to hold on to him as he puked. As an experienced seafarer, I knew which side not to be on.

The passing of a line and the slow tow back were uneventful, if a little bit like being stuck on a roller coaster for hours. We were back in port at three on Sunday morning.